


but if you send for me, you know i'll come

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 16:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's early morning, and the light is thin and rosy and slipping through the blinds. Stripes of desaturated sunshine drape themselves like liquid over his face. You're barely awake yourself, and there's something sleepy and slow still in the atmosphere. Your legs are still tangled in his.
Relationships: Stan Pines/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 82





	but if you send for me, you know i'll come

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Old Money", by Lana Del Rey.

It's not often you get the chance to look at Stan this long. He's self-conscious, you know, despite his seemingly arrogant bluster, and never really lets you look your fill of him when you want to. 

It's early morning, and the light is thin and rosy and slipping through the blinds. Stripes of desaturated sunshine drape themselves like liquid over his face. You're barely awake yourself, and there's something sleepy and slow still in the atmosphere. Your legs are still tangled in his.

He's in his boxers with no shirt on, and your head is pillowed on his broad chest, hair pleasantly scratchy under your cheek. You're watching him breathe, still snoring softly, your fingertips tracing nonsense patterns on the soft white underbelly of his thick forearms. The lines on his face are less pronounced in sleep. You wonder how much stress he's been under these past decades, and something under your ribs aches for him, wishing you could've eased the struggles of his past for him.

By proximity you inhale the smell of him, still faintly reminiscent of your sugar-lemon body wash he swears he doesn't steal (but he totally does), of clean sweat, of faded aftershave, of something so familiar but hard to describe as anything other than the smell of warmth.

He shifts in his sleep, hands reaching out, seeking your familiar form. He pulls you tighter to him, and you smile stupidly where your face is smashed into his chest. You can't help it. It's almost alarming, how much you love him. It's _almost_ alarming, but it's not. You wonder if you're supposed to be scared by the magnitude of your longing for him, by the sheer expansiveness of your desire. You wonder if this is what your life was meant for--surely not, but it feels like it. When you are wrapped up in him, breathing him in, it sure feels like it.

You stay there, caught between an ambiguous wakefulness and sleep. How much time passes, you're not sure; the light has gone from soft and rosy to a blazing honey-gold, and the world has warmed up. Stan blinks his eyes open blearily, lifting one hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. Again, you feel that curious ache under your ribs, but this time, it's sweet. 

His eyes finally focus on you, and the corners of his mouth seem to turn upwards of their own volition. "Good mornin', toots," he says, voice gravelly and slow from sleep. You grin, struck silly by just how endeared you are to this gruff old man, and tilt your chin up to press kisses to the hard line of his jaw. There's something soft and sweet between Stan and you; there always is, this early in the morning, when both of you are still heavy-lidded and gentled by drowsiness. 

"It's always a good morning when I'm with you, Stan," you reply. He laughs at your cheesy statement, tangling his fingers in yours and looking pleased nonetheless.

"Of course it is," he says, grinning widely, cheeks pink. "Now, where are my pants?"


End file.
